


pascal's triangle, revisited.

by pentaghastly



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Friends to Lovers, alternate alternate title: you uhhh you know that feeling when you want to fuck your best friend?, alternate title: this shit would be a lot easier if you guys just communicated, arya thinks gendry wants to bang sansa and gets Mad in C Minor, it's fluff babey, that's basically.......the plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 01:59:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18729418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentaghastly/pseuds/pentaghastly
Summary: (And, of course, nobody belongs to anybody, and nobody can stake a possessive claim over another person just because they have a silent, internalized, entirely metaphorical competition with their incredibly beautiful older sister that they feel impossibly driven to finallywin-Of course.But if there was such a competition, and if they could –If they could, Gendry Waters would be hers.)





	pascal's triangle, revisited.

**Author's Note:**

> gendry/arya: together, happy, married
> 
> sansa/theon: together, ALIVE, also married
> 
> alternate alternate alternate title: 8x04 - That Shit Hurted

…

 

Once upon a time, Arya Stark found someone who was hers.

Not Sansa’s.

 _Hers_.

(And, of course, nobody belongs to anybody, and nobody can stake a possessive claim over another person just because they have a silent, internalized, entirely metaphorical competition with their incredibly beautiful older sister that they feel unbelievably driven to finally _win_.

Of course.

But if there was such a competition, and if they could – 

If they could, Gendry Waters would be hers.)

So Gendry’s a little bit of an idiot. So Gendry is really just a bunch of muscles stacked up together with a tiny, pin-sized brain shoved somewhere inside – somewhere deep, deep inside.

He’s kind. He’s funny. He laughs at Arya’s inappropriate jokes instead of acting scandalized or scolding her for being unladylike and he listens to the same kind of music she does – or, at the very least, he lets her steal the AUX cord without really complaining – and he believes in her when she’s pretty sure that no one else in her family could be bothered to spare her a second fucking glance.

He’s her best friend, and for once one of her best friends is not – because he’s _not_ – in love with Sansa.

Not like Pod. Or Hot Pie. 

Fucking traitors.

Once upon a time, Gendry Waters is hers and hers alone.

 

…

 

Except, of course, nobody belongs to anybody.

And Gendry…Gendry’s a little bit of an idiot.

 

...

 

It’s one month, five weeks, and four days before her eighteenth birthday when she notices it.

_It._

They’re stretched out by the pool – _they_ being Sansa, Arya, Theon, Jon, Robb, Bran, Rickon, and Gendry. The entirety of the younger Stark clan, whether official or not. It’s not an uncommon scene, really:

Robb, Jon, and Theon are acting like fucking idiots in the pool. Rickon is doing his best to join in, and occasionally Theon will lift him onto his shoulders or Jon will toss him the ball and Arya swears, the look on her little brother’s face is like someone’s just handed him a million pounds. Bran is reading by himself beside her, so quiet it’s easy to forget that he’s there, but occasionally he glances up and smiles, soft and sweet.

It’s just like it was when they were kids. It’s a moment, frozen in time, and it’s one that she’d love to remember (although you’d never catch her dead saying as much out loud). Every one of them, together, in exactly the way that it should be.

Every one of them, and Arya – 

Arya would _normally_ be with Gendry, playing football or wrestling in the water or doing something stupid, something ridiculous, something that’s just for the two of them.

They would normally be doing that, and the only problem in the otherwise picture-perfect day is that right now they aren’t, and they can’t, because Gendry is too busy sitting and whispering and giggling with Sansa.

Gendry. _Giggling_.

So instead of doing something proper summery and fun, Arya is stuck glaring daggers at her older sister and her best-friend-turned-traitor from the other side of the pool, trying (and failing) to not look like the petulant child that she feels like at the moment.

“Not everything is how it looks,” Bran says, and she wants to throw her lemonade – the perfectly sweet, utterly refreshing, _infuriatingly_ good lemonade Sansa had made – right in his fucking face. 

How it looks:

It looks like Gendry, who is _her_ best friend and _her_ person, is currently sitting right fucking across from Arya while flirting incessantly with her beautiful, long-legged, red-haired, walking angel of an older sister.

It looks like…well, Arya certainly doesn’t need Bran to tell her what it looks like, because she’s got a perfectly fucking keen pair of eyes and she can see what it looks like all by herself, thank you very much. She knows _exactly_ what it looks like.

It looks like the ultimate form of betrayal.

“It doesn’t look like shit,” Arya says, huffing. And then realizing she’s given herself away just a bit, she continues, “Jesus, I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Do you always have to be so fucking cryptic?”

Bran, for his part, just laughs. “No, but it’s a lot more fun.” 

_Fun_. Gendry and Sansa certainly seem to be having a lot of it.

“ _I’m_ the one who invited him over,” she states, not sure what point she’s trying to make. “Him and Sansa are hardly even friends.”

“It would bother you if they were, then.” 

It’s not phrased as a question, but Arya feels compelled to answer.

_Fucking hell, Bran._

“It wouldn’t bother me. It’s just…unnatural. Like a dog walking on its hind legs. Or seeing a teacher outside of class.” 

Bran raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything more. At least, despite his creepily perceptive stare, he knows when to shut up and leave her to her pouting.

Sansa laughs again, loud and clear.

Arya glares.

She feels – wrong. Off-balance.

“Oi!” Theon throws the ball so it hits Gendry square in the head, looking pointedly and unquestionably _annoyed_. Apparently she’s not the only one bothered by the whole situation ( _take that, Bran_ ). “Stop drooling and get in the pool, Waters, before Robb and I have to come up there and toss your sorry arse in ourselves!” 

For the first time in her life, Arya feels immensely grateful for Theon fucking Greyjoy.

Fancy that.

 

.

 

She doesn’t say anything to Gendry about it later, eating snacks and binging terrible horror films.

 _Obviously_ she doesn’t say anything, because there’s nothing to say, because nothing even happened, no matter what Bran tried to convince her. Absolutely nothing at all.

“Today was fun,” Gendry says, unprompted, ignoring the rather scathing warning glare she shoots his way. “I know this sounds stupid so don’t say shit, okay? I just mean…it’s nice, you know, getting to hang out with your family. Never had anything like that growing up.” 

So that’s all it’s about. He never had siblings growing up – not siblings that he _knew_ , anyways, so he probably just looks at Sansa like a step-sister.

A beautiful, sweet step-sister that he’s really not that close to and would have no problem with – 

_God damn it_.

“They like you,” she says, and she means it. “Fuck if I know why, annoying prat that you are, but they do.” 

And that, she thinks, is that.

 

…

 

It’s that, until it’s not.

It’s _not_ , because Gendry and Sansa develop a weird little friendship that can only be described as – well, it can only be described as _weird_.

The day after the pool, she catches Sansa’s phone light up with a text, and even though Arya definitely isn’t prying (because she’s _not_ , she swears that she isn’t) but she still manages to see the name that lights up the screen and…honestly, she hadn’t even known that they had each other’s numbers until now. 

“Since when are you and Gendry friends?” she snaps, immediately hating the way that her voice sounds. Whiny. _Jealous_. 

Sansa looks…confused. Properly, actually confused.

“We’ve always been friends,” she says, shrugging. “I guess you just haven’t noticed.” 

“You don’t even have anything in common.” 

They _don’t_. Gendry likes sports and Sansa likes cupcakes. Gendry couldn’t solve a math equation to save his life and Sansa is pre-med, for fucks sake. Gendry listens to prog rock and Sansa…well, the contents of Sansa’s Spotify library are too terrifying for Arya to even consider.

They’ve got nothing in common. _Nothing_. She and Gendry like the same music and they play the same games and sure, they butt heads, but that’s only because they’re so similar that it’s occasionally terrifying. For him to be going after Sansa – it’s not like she’d want him to go after _her_ , not at all, but the fact that he’s going for someone who’s so completely wrong for him – 

She’s worried. That’s it. 

She’s worried for her friend, and she’s worried for her sister.

Let it never be said that Arya Stark isn’t an exceptionally generous person.

“I thought you’d be happy,” Sansa says with a pout, looking entirely innocent and entirely _hurt_. “That I’m making an effort with your friends. You asked me to try and I’m trying, Arya.” 

Fuck.

(She’s really a bitch, isn’t she?)

“It is. Just…I mean, he’s _Gendry_.”

“I’m aware.”

“He’s awkward. He doesn’t know shit about girls, I swear.” 

“Arya.” Her sister looks amused, now. Amused, and – something utterly suspicious. “I think he knows more than you might be aware of.” 

And that –

She doesn’t like the sound of _that_ at all.

 

…

 

Arya tells herself that she’s not going to let it bother her. She tells herself that she’s an adult, a big fucking girl, and that Gendry Waters can giggle and laugh with whoever he damn well likes and she won’t be bothered.

Arya Stark is a shit fucking liar.

At least, she’s shit at lying to herself.

Theon, apparently, is the only person who notices that something is off.

 _Theon_.

(Maybe she’s a better liar than she thinks. Or maybe everyone in her family is just really, really fucking stupid.)

He’s glaring at Sansa and Gendry from across the porch – the Starks are having a summer barbeque, and Robb and Margaery are canoodling while Bran and Meera look _disgustingly_ cute and Sansa and Gendry are…they’re _whispering_ , heads bent close together, and occasionally Gendry’s eyes will flicker over to where Arya is sitting but they’ll never last for longer than a half second.

So everyone – everyone save Rickon, a literal child – is coupled up and being adorable, and Arya is left sitting in a fuming rage with Theon fucking Greyjoy.

Seriously. 

_Theon_.

“What’s crawled up your arse?” he asks, sipping from his beer, looking as pissed as Arya feels.

“Sansa and Gendry,” she snaps, not bothering to lie – she’s too annoyed to care at this point. “And then they started making out in there.” 

Theon’s gaze snaps back to hers. “Wait – fuck, they’re…you’re joking, right?”

“ _Obviously_. But it’s not like it’ll be long before Waters tries to get up her skirt, just like everyone else does.” 

This seems to calm Theon’s nerves, if only a bit. He’s still all fidgety, and he still looks a little bit like he wants to vomit – he still looks like he’s about five seconds from going over there and chucking his (almost) empty beer bottle at Gendry’s head.

Honestly…

Honestly, Arya would probably pay to see it. 

“Fuck does he think he’s doing, anyways?” Theon mutters, shifting a bit closer to her. “That Harding prick _just_ cheated on her a few months ago. She’s not ready for some other arsehole to swoop in and –” 

“And it’s _gross_. Like, they’ve got nothing in common.” 

“Pretty sure Sansa’s got more in common with a football than she has with him.” 

“ _Ugh._ Look at the way she’s leaning towards him. It’s like –” 

“He’s not even that good looking.”

Arya scoffs. “ _Right_. Good one, mate.”

“He’s not. Is he?” 

_Is he?_

Arya glances back over at Gendry once more – at the ripple of his biceps under that ridiculous, too-tight t-shirt, and the way that his eyes shimmer an utterly ridiculous shade of blue when the sun hits them just right, and the way he throws his head back when he laughs; it’s a bizarre, full-body laugh that she always makes fun of him for, but only because she actually…

She kind of loves it.

It’s _her_ laugh. Like, it’s his laugh, but it’s the one he usually reserves for her, for when she says something inappropriate and ridiculous and Gendry looks at her like she’s the best fucking thing that he’s ever seen.

He’s laughing that laugh for Sansa right now. Right now – right in front of her, the asshole, and even though she’s angry with him she thinks back to Theon’s question and knows that yeah, okay, maybe Gendry isn’t the worst looking guy on the planet.

“He’s alright,” she shrugs, and then turns back to catch the flicker of annoyance in Theon’s eyes grow darker. “More Sansa’s type than you are, I reckon.” 

He almost chokes on his beer.

Arya feels, for a moment, victorious.

“You’re a bitch,” Theon says, when he’s finally able to breathe again, and when he’s finally able to tear his eyes away from her sister. “A stone-cold bitch.” 

Sansa’s not a bitch. Sansa is a good person. Nobody would ever look at Sansa Stark and think, _wow, that girl’s got to be an absolute monster_. Sansa…Sansa would never, not in a million years, want them to.

That’s just the thing, though:

“And don’t you forget it,” she says, jabbing a finger right in Theon’s face.

Arya’s not Sansa.

(Thank fuck for that). 

 

…

 

Three weeks, five days, and fourteen hours before her eighteenth birthday, and –

And Gendry Waters is, officially, her worst enemy.

“It’ll be fun, Arya!” She hates the way he looks right now: hopeful, childlike, absolutely adorable. She wants to punch him right in his big, beautiful, idiot face, but there’s people around and her mum will kill her if she gets arrested. “Christ, would you lighten up?” 

“This isn’t fun,” she snaps. “This is _torture_.” 

_This_ is a movie marathon.

A full-blown, romantic as fuck, picnic at the park, Eighties movie marathon.

Gendry had bought tickets a month ago. Bought them, and invited her out for a ‘ _surprise_ ’ without even telling her what it was until they were near the park. She doesn’t think she’s seen him so excited for anything – especially not for something that includes the words ‘Pretty in Pink’.

 _This_ , Arya knows, is Sansa’s doing.

She doesn’t know how, or why, but this afternoon – this marathon, the picnic basket tossed over Gendry’s shoulder – it has her sister’s pristine little fingerprints all over it. She only wishes she knew what her intentions possibly could have been.

“You’re always complaining about how we never do anything different. And I figured –” 

“It’s thirty bloody degrees out, Gendry. We’re going to _roast_.” 

“I figured this was something different, you know? Besides, I know you love this kind of stuff.”

“You don’t know shit.” 

“You told me last month –” 

“ _Shut_ it.” 

What she’d told him last month was that yes, The Breakfast Club is one of her favourite movies and okay, sure, she’s cried a few times at St. Elmo’s Fire and right, everyone knows that the _Twist ‘N Shout_ scene from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off is one of the most iconic pieces of cinematic history.

She hadn’t told him to take her to a romantic picnic at the park. That’s the exact bloody opposite thing that she would tell him to do.

“This just – I mean, it seems like more of a Sansa thing.” 

Gendry shrugs. “Think she’s got plans.”

How the fuck does he know that?

“How the _fuck_ ,” Arya huffs, “do you know that?” 

“We don’t have to go,” he avoids her question expertly, looking…Gods help her, he actually looks disappointed. “If you don’t want to. It was a stupid idea.”

It was. A stupid, ridiculous, thoughtful idea.

“We’re going.” Arya doesn’t like losing, but she also doesn’t want to think about how much of a whiney little arsehole he’s going to be if doesn’t let him win. “Obviously. You already spent the money, and we’re here, aren’t we?”

Plus – honestly, it doesn’t sound like that bad of a time. It sounds like a brilliant fucking time, because she’ll never admit it out loud (to anyone other than him) but John Hughes movies are kind of like her kryptonite and the fact that he’s spent so much time planning this entire day for her – for _them_ – is honestly one of the nicest things that someone’s done for her in a while.

So they’re going. 

Of _course_ they are.

Gendry whoops, and he scoops her up and throws her over his shoulder like she weighs nothing – which, okay, in all fairness to him that’s probably true – and runs down the path, as excited as she’s seen him in months. 

“Put me down!” she shouts, but she’s laughing as she does. “You massive fucking prat, put me down!”

He puts her down.

She…Christ, she misses him when he does.

 

.

 

So the afternoon-turned-evening isn’t horrible.

It’s kind of brilliant, actually.

Gendry, somehow, has thought of everything. He’s brought a ridiculously comfortable blanket for the two of them to sit on, two six packs of beer (an IPA for him, a Belgian wit for her), and a collection of her favourite snacks – hummus, pita, salt and vinegar chips, Smarties, and a collection of mini grilled cheeses – and, _fuck_ , she’s trying to clear her head but he’s making it awfully hard.

They don’t cuddle. They _don’t_ , because they’re Arya and Gendry and that, no question about it, would be weird.

Nice, maybe. 

But weird.

Still, they sit a little bit closer together than they normally do and Gendry’s hand brushes against hers twice – the first time is an accident, probably, but Arya swears that he means to the second time – and maybe it’s a little bit strange, but Arya doesn’t think about Sansa once during all of The Breakfast Club.

Honestly, she doesn’t.

“I get why you like this so much,” he says, nudging her shoulder gently with his when Judd Nelson is raising his fist triumphantly in the air. “’S not half bad.”

“I don’t like it _that_ much,” Arya says, as she brushes a tear from the corner of her eyes. 

“Nah,” Gendry scoffs. “You hate it, clearly.”

“Shut _up_.”

He does.

“I’m glad you’re having fun,” Gendry says after a minute, once the credits start to properly roll. “Your family’s great and all, but it’s nice, yeah? Just the two of us.” 

Just the two of them.

Just the two of them, Arya and Gendry, best fucking friends for life. That’s all that he means – she knows that’s all that he means. But suddenly there’s all this shit swirling in her head again, shit with Sansa, the shit that Theon had said, the way that Gendry is looking at her like _that_ , and Arya knows…

Arya doesn’t fucking know a thing. 

“I’m going to go for a walk,” she says, scrambling up from the blanket quick as she can. “A long one. I really have to piss.”

“Classy!” Gendry calls after her, stalking towards the washroom at top fucking speed.

She doesn’t look back at him.

Not even once.

 

.

 

After her twenty-two minute, thirty-three second, not-quite panic attack in the loo, Arya opens the door smack into someone else.

Smack into Sansa.

An artfully dishevelled, prettily-flushed, messy-haired Sansa.

“Gods, _Arya!_ ” Sansa exclaims, right at the minute that Arya shouts, “Oh my fucking _Gods_ , you had sex!” 

They stare at each other for a minute – maybe less, or maybe a hell of a lot longer – before her sister is grabbing her arm and dragging her down a hall. Her nails (rounded, sharp, not even fake, just _perfect_ ) dig into Arya’s forearm and she knows…well, she knows that she’s just seen something she’s not supposed to.

“You can’t just shout something like that in public!” Sansa hisses – prim, perfect Sansa, losing her cool.

“It’s true,” Arya snaps back, not lowering her voice in the way her sister is. “And you’re doing a horrible job hiding it. Your shirt is on backwards, genius.” 

“It’s not…oh, _Christ_. Do you think anyone noticed?” 

Arya scoffs. “I did.”

Sansa dabs away that the mascara smudged under her eyes, quickly slides her sleeves out of the straps of her tank top and rotates it around properly. Arya almost wishes that she hadn’t told her – somehow, even looking a mess, her sister is prettier than anyone else in the room. 

“Don’t tell anyone. Arya, _please_.”

Sansa looks beautiful, wide-eyed, and utterly frightened. 

She’s obviously not going to tell, but still – still, she’s not feeling nice enough to make any promises quite yet. “Who’s the lucky one, then? I swear to god, Sans, I don’t need details, but I swear to fucking God if it’s that Hard-on prick –” 

“It’s _not_ Harry. Honestly, Arya, how low do you think my standards are?”

“I mean…no offense, Sans, but you fucked Joffrey, didn’t you?”

Sansa winces, and Arya knows…Arya _knows_ that was cruel of her. She hadn’t meant it to be – she’d meant it to be a joke, but then sometimes she forgets that Sansa’s not her, and there’s certain subjects that just shouldn’t be touched.

“This is different,” Sansa says after a moment, after Arya’s had enough time to feel like a proper arse. “It’s _different_. He’s nice to me, Arya. You already – you’d like him.”

She’d like him.

She already…

_Oh._

How could she have been such an idiot? It all makes sense, now, Gendry bringing her here and knowing that Sansa had plans tonight, all of the secrecy and the weirdness – this had never been a night about just the two of them.

He’d probably been waiting for her to leave, waiting so he could text Sansa so they could go shag in the bushes and do whatever it was that clandestine lovers did when they were being sneaky little clandestine fucking bitches. It’d never been about the two of them; it had been about _Sansa_ , like everything always was.

She’s such an idiot.

How could she have been such a ridiculous bloody idiot?

“I’m sure I would, Sans,” Arya says, because her sister looks so hopeful and bright and, for once, Arya _refuses_ to be the villain in this situation. 

It’s not Sansa’s fault, after all.

Arya just wishes she had someone to blame other than herself.

 

…

 

So, okay, the first time she’d talked to Gendry Waters –

It hadn’t, in fact, been because she thought he had _good form_.

(That’s a terrible fucking excuse.)

Track and Field is her _thing_ – Arya’s little but she’s quick, and even though she might not have the traditional body type of a sprinter she more often than not left the other girls in the race choking on her dust.

And in between heats she’d stopped to walk the shot putters do…whatever it is that they do, and through all of it she’d seen him.

Sweaty, dark-haired, absurdly muscular, ridiculously attractive, _him_. Arya knew who he was – everyone knew. He was Gendry Waters, recent transfer, and he looked suspiciously like their drunken prat of a mayor who, rumour had it, had any number of bastard kids running around Westeros. She knew who he was, of course, but not because of that.

She knew who he was because he was fucking _hot_ , and maybe Arya’s not like Jeyne and Sansa, giggling and twirling their hair from afar, but she’s still got needs.

The issue had come when she’d approached him –

And, shockingly enough, she’d _liked_ him.

So, okay, the first time she’d talked to Gendry Waters there is a slight but not insignificant chance that she’d been trying to get into his pants. 

(Maybe that’s part of why it hurts so much, that Sansa gets there first.)

 

…

 

After the movies, she avoids Gendry like the plague.

He’s still blowing up Sansa’s phone. Arya _knows_ that he is, because she sees her sister look at her phone and smile – this sappy, ridiculous, stretched-out smile that Arya _knows_ means that she’s properly happy.

He’s blowing up Arya’s phone, too. He’s texting her fifteen, twenty, thirty times per day and she’s always got an excuse why she can’t hang out: she’s tired, she’s busy practicing, she’s having an existential crisis because of the latest season of Stranger Things and thus is unavailable for any visitors at this time, thank you very much.

She doesn’t feel _good_ about it. She doesn’t feel good about a lot of things lately, and it’s almost entirely Gendry’s fault.

Theon has been coming over to hang out with them more, and when he comes over he gives Arya this _look_ – careful, measured, as though he’s in on some kind of unspoken agreement between the two of them that even she can’t start to identify. As though they’re one in the same, the two of them, but she hasn’t the slightest idea what they’ve got in common.

And what they’ve got is, quite frankly, nothing.

(Because the teenage angst and existential turmoil might exceed any bounds previously known to human kind – 

But if it comes to a pissing match between her and Theon fucking Greyjoy, Arya’s pretty sure she’s got a monopoly on it.)

“Alright there, Basket Case?” he says, tossing a wadded-up napkin at her after supper one night.

Two weeks, six days, and seven hours before her eighteenth birthday.

“ _Fine_ ,” she snaps, even though she’s not, even though she’s sure that Theon can see it written all over her face. “My sister’s fucking my best friend, but I’m just fine. Why wouldn’t I be? It’s all absolutely bloody peachy.” 

Theon laughs – he actually _laughs_ , the prick, and Arya regrets ever feeling a sense of kinship with him all those weeks ago.

“Can’t believe I’m telling you this,” he says, “but it’s not what you think. Turns out we’re both fucking idiots.” 

“Speak for yourself.” 

He’s still looking at her, but it’s a different kind of look than before: half pity, half amusement, with perhaps a little bit of fondness smattered in on top of that. She doesn’t mind Theon, she thinks, not really – at least, she doesn’t mind him in the moments when he’s not being a prat.

“Just try talking to her, yeah? You might be surprised.” He shrugs. “I was.”

It’s shockingly… _sincere_.

“Or,” Theon continues, “you can just sit here being a whiny little brat and blame everyone else for your problems. Whichever works.”

She hates him.

(He’s right.

That makes her hate him even more.)

 

…

 

One day and three hours before her birthday, Arya takes Theon’s advice.

She bursts into her sister’s room without knocking at one in the morning – because, _fuck_ , it’s Sansa, and she couldn’t possibly have anything to hide.

She bursts into her sister’s room and hears a giggle, than a gasp, and watched a very naked (admittedly very nice) arse roll off the side of her bed – an arse, and a mop of thick dark hair and, Arya’s sure, a set of piercing blue eyes that widen in shock when they spot her.

She bursts into her sister’s room and –

 _Fuck,_ she should really learn to knock.

“You brought him _here?_ ” Arya snaps, not bothering to lower her voice. “In the middle of the night? Jesus, Sansa, our rooms are right bloody next to each other! You think I want to hear you –” 

“You should have knocked, Arya!” 

Her sister is scrambling out of bed – still in shorts and a sports bra, thank fuck – and she’s tossing things over the other side to where the prick is hiding: a t-shirt, jeans, and…Jesus, a pair of fish-patterned underwear that Arya could have gone her whole life without having to see. Who knew Gendry had such horrible taste?

(She definitely knew that._

“I didn’t think I had to knock, because I didn’t think I’d walk in on my best mate and my sister canoodling in her bed!” 

“I didn’t – wait, _what?_ ”

“I was trying, Sans, I really was. I hadn’t said anything, and I wanted to come tonight and give you and Gendry my blessing to –” 

“What does _Gendry_ have to do with this?”

Gods. Arya doesn’t know what’s worse: the fact that her sister had decided that it was okay to fuck Gendry in their own bloody house without even telling Arya about the two of them in the first place, or the fact that she’s pretending now that she doesn’t know a thing about it.

“I know,” Arya sighs, speaking slow as she can, slow as their mum used to speak when they were young, “that the two of you are hooking up.” 

“Well,” a voice says – a third voice, coming from behind the bed, one that’s distinctly _not_ Gendry’s, “that’s awkward. Did you know that, Sans?” 

A third voice that’s not Gendry’s, but still…

Still horribly familiar.

“Theon,” Sansa huffs, “would you mind?” 

And then –

And then Theon fucking Greyjoy rises from behind her sister’s bed like a kraken from the fucking sea – if, that is, a kraken from the sea wore underwear patterned with cartoon fishes. 

“I told you,” Theon says, with an insufferably smirk that Arya wants to slap right off of him, “that we’re both fucking idiots.” 

Her brain is short-circuiting.

The Earth’s axis is tilting.

Sansa and Theon are having sex.

(The whole bloody universe is imploding, and she can still somehow hear Robb snoring from down the hall.)

“But,” she says, because she can’t think of anything else worth saying, “what about the marathon?”

“I was there with _Theon_ ,” she says, rolling her eyes. “That’s why I asked you not to tell anyone – we don’t want Robb to freak, you know?” 

She, unfortunately, does.

“I gave Gendry the idea to invite you,” Sansa continues, as if this is all the most obvious thing in the world, “because he wanted to do something to impress you, and Theon’d just got us tickets so I figured – well, I thought it’d be something you enjoyed. I just didn’t plan on seeing you there.” 

That, unfortunately, makes sense

“What about you, then?” Now it’s Theon’s turn – she whirls on him, and he raises his hands by his head in a show of mock-innocence, although the grin on his face says otherwise. “All that jealousy shit at mum and dad’s barbeque – what was that?” 

He shrugs.

 _Prat_.

“I was jealous,” he says, echoing her words as if they’re nothing, “as I have been over every arse who flirts with your sister for the past ten years or so. And then, like a grown adult, after you and I threw our little fits I finally decided that instead of moping I should go make a move. Turns out it worked – worked pretty well, I’d say.” 

Theon looks at Sansa and winks.

Sansa _giggles_.

Arya doesn’t know a fucking thing about anything.

“None of this,” she says, voice increasing in pitch along with her panic, “explains the sudden, freakish little friendship between you and Gendry lately. The texts, the phone calls, the whispered conversations…it’s shit, Sans. You’re leading him on, and it’s shit, and –”

“Arya.” Now it’s Sansa’s turn to speak like the mum – and, really, it sounds much more natural coming from her. “Arya, it’s your eighteenth birthday in two days.” 

She blinks.

Sansa sighs.

“He asked me to help plan you a surprise. He’s been going _insane_ over it for weeks – he still is, actually, even though you’re being a complete bitch and not responding to any of his texts.” She huffs, shakes her head, looks at Arya as though she’s just put her through a lifetime of torture. “Honestly, Arya – me and _Gendry_?”

“When you say it like that,” like it’s the most ridiculous thing in the world, that is, “it sounds a lot more unreasonable than it seemed in my head.” 

“It’s not unreasonable. It’s just…I mean, if you’re going to suspect _anyone_ , Theon is much more my type.” 

Arya hates – _hates_ – the way Theon grins and kisses her sister, as if in celebration.

She extra hates the way he flips her the middle finger as he does.

(She hates how she’s happy for them.)

And the way he says, “Told you,” when they finally come up for air.

 

…

 

Arya hates all of this, honestly.

She especially hates the way that it could be argued that technically, realistically –

Well, it’s all her fault.

 

…

 

Thirteen hours and thirty-three minutes into her eighteenth birthday, Arya bangs on the door of Gendry’s flat.

It takes him sixty-five seconds to open it, and in that time she forgets everything that she’d planned to say.

 _Fuck it_. 

If nothing else, at least Arya knows she can improvise.

“As it turns out,” she says, shoving past him and ignoring her protest as she ducks into the hallway, “you and Sansa aren’t having sex, because Sansa and Theon are having sex – and, somehow, that pairing is entirely more normal.”

Gendry, bless his heart, looks horrifically confused.

( _Welcome to the club_.) 

“I – what the fuck are you on about?” 

“I thought,” she says, weaving into his kitchen to drop the provisions she’s brought over onto his counter – a six-pack of IPA for him, a six-pack of Belgian wit for her, a toothbrush, and a scrunchie, “that you and my sister were having sex.”

“Why the fuck would you think that?” Arya’s never seen Gendry look like that before – borderline offended. “Jesus, Arya, do you’ve any idea what my type is?” 

She snorts. “So you’re telling me your type _isn’t_ beautiful, single women?”

He scowls.

She grins.

“You’re not funny.” 

“Not in the least,” Arya agrees. “Sansa told me you planned something for tonight, then?”

The room doesn’t look immaculately decorated – or decorated at all, actually. The only thing that’s standing out to her is a lopsided, shittily decorated cake on the table by the television, one with exactly one, two, three…

“Eighteen candles,” Gendry says, following her gaze. “Another movie marathon, just the two of us, with beer and takeout and. Well. You can see – so basically a normal Friday night, but filled with all of your favourite stuff. Stupid, but Sans said you would like it.”

It’s –

“It’s the cheesiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.” 

He _glares_.

“I love it.” Then, because she hates this, and because she…she doesn’t hate _him_ , she continues. “Sorry for being an idiot.”

“You were.” 

“I was,” Arya agrees, “but it’s only because every single bloody friend that I’ve ever trusted enough to introduce with my family has gone and fallen in love with my sister, and then they act like a complete fucking arse about it. It’d be funny if it wasn’t so disgusting – you’ve seen Pod when he walks into the same room as her, yeah?” 

Gendry’s nose scrunches – scrunches _adorably_. “It’s like he short-circuits.” 

“It’s like watching an alien try to form sentences in its first day on Earth,” Arya states, nodding sagely. “Hot Pie’s not much better. And that’s just two – so when I thought I’d lost you, I went a bit…”

“Ballistic?”

“Essentially.” 

“Except,” he steps forward, and _fuck_ , she’d forgotten how stupidly big Gendry is, “there’s a difference. Because I’m pretty sure you never cut Pod and Hot Pie completely out of your life for wanting to sleep with your sister.”

“I didn’t even want to,” Arya supplements, probably unhelpfully, “and I did with you.”

“And I didn’t even _want_ to sleep with her. Besides, her and Theon were so fucking obvious that you would have had to be blind not to –” 

“I didn’t,” Arya cuts him off with a scowl, partially because she’s tired of this conversation and partially because she doesn’t want a reminder of how dumb she’s been, “because I didn’t want to sleep with Pod or Hot Pie.”

Gendry is, miraculously, quiet.

That’s got to be a first.

“I’m saying that,” Arya says, mostly because she knows Gendry is a fucking idiot and she wants to lay this all out as clearly as she can, “to let you know that I want to sleep with you. That I’ve wanted to sleep with you for a while, actually, and I think that I may have been a bit too subtle about it before. Preferably after cake, though, because I’m starving and that looks delicious.” 

Gendry swallows.

She grins.

And he stares at her, expression horribly open and heartbreakingly vulnerable, searching every inch of her face for – what, exactly? A sign that she’s messing with him? A hint that she’s going to break away and run?

God – he’s staring it her, and all Arya can think about is how badly she wants to kiss him.

She takes a step forward, and Gendry takes one to meet her, and Arya…

Well, Arya’s never been one to deprive herself of something she wants.

Arya Stark kisses Gendry Waters thirteen hours and forty-one minutes into her eighteenth birthday, and when she kisses him she does so because she means it, and she wants to kiss him again and again and she _wants_ and she – 

He gasps against her lips, disbelieving, sweet, and his hands tangle in her hair and he whispers, “ _Arya_.”

He does that, she thinks, because he’s hers.

 

…

 

And, okay, so she knows that it’s true: that nobody belongs to anybody.

It’s just that…well, if they did, and if they _could_ – 

If they could, it wouldn’t matter because Arya Stark would still never belong to anyone – but that’s okay, she thinks, because Gendry is still a little bit of an idiot and, sure, maybe she is too, but he kisses her like he’s hers.

 

…

**Author's Note:**

> comments/kudos mean the world xx


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